Acts
by AlterationLover
Summary: But you wouldn't clap yet. Because making something disappear isn't enough; you have to bring it back.
1. Prologue

_Every great magic trick consists of three parts or acts. The first part is called "The Pledge". The magician shows you something ordinary: a deck of cards, a bird or a man. He shows you this object. Perhaps he asks you to inspect it to see if it is indeed real, unaltered, normal. But of course… it probably isn't. The second act is called "The Turn". The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you're looking for the secret… but you won't find it, because of course you're not really looking. You don't really want to know. You want to be fooled. But you wouldn't clap yet. Because making something disappear isn't enough; __**you have to bring it back**_.

- The Prestige (2006)

[A.N. This story is inspired by the song O, Death by Jen Titus and by the artwork of punksanddisorderly]


	2. Act One  I

_**Act One - The Pledge**_

**I**

"And how do you feel about that?"

Silence followed by an army of Confusion marches into the room and sits at John's feet, staring with wide, transparent eyes at the woman in the seat opposite. They lick their lips hungrily, waiting for the signal, waiting to pounce. John stops them with his voice, with three words.

"Are you serious?"

The woman – his therapist – doesn't reply. She just looks at him with dull eyes that occasionally flicker to her pen that hovers precariously over her notebook.

_Just like he did on that roof_.

There is a Ghost – watching, waiting, standing behind him, his pale hand resting oh John's shoulder. John shakes his head once, and the hand is gone. The Ghost flies away out of the window. Not for long though.

The Confusion at his feet transforms into Anger suddenly, growling at the woman, their ugly teeth made of shattered memories are bared menacingly.

"How do you bloody well think I'm feeling?" he bellows, and the Anger howls with him, barking at Silence, who quivers behind the bars of John's legs, terrified and whimpering.

Again, the therapist doesn't speak, but her pen does drop to the paper, leaving a blue trail in its wake.

_One moment of impact, with only a faded red smear left behind._

Sorrow pops its weary head out from behind John's shoulder, letting out a mournful yowl, and the ghostly hand is back, soothing Sorrow, patting its head. John doesn't snap the Ghost away this time.

"You need to talk about this, John." the woman whispers, and for a moment, John almost believes her sadness. But she doesn't have Sorrow balanced behind her. There is nothing behind those eyes, no emotion. The Ghost leans down, hovering his lips inches away from John's ear, and whispers:

"Why do you still pay her? She's dreadfully dreary. And she doesn't really care, of course not. Look at her: she checks her watch every minute – probably can't wait for the session to be over. And notice her fingers, always twitching, rolling that pen through them – almost her cigarette break. She's _dying_ for her fix."

The Ghost is quietened once more as John cracks his knuckles loudly, and the sound seems to reverberate through the room forever before halting. Sorrow sighs sadly, resting its head once more on John's shoulder.

"No," John says finally, biting back the urge to just walk away. He plants his feet firmly on the ground and forces Silence to sit on them, its heavy body weighing him down, "No, I can't."

She sighs. She's not disappointed – they've passed that point. It's Exasperation that escapes from behind her lips, and it sits up on her lap, straight backed and poised, positioned carefully on her knees.

"I think that's all we have time for today, John." she stands up, and Exasperation jumps off her lap, but remains by her side, weaving its way between her legs.

John follows suit, shoving Silence off his feet. It glares at him, but marches out of the room, it's head held high, proud and mighty.

"Thank you." John lies, extending her hand. She takes it without hesitation, grasping his fingers in her own for a split second before her hand falls to her side, useless.

Awkward rears its ugly head for only a moment before John turns on his heels, marching out of the room, the Ghost at his heels.

* * *

><p>The flat is empty as always. Empty and quiet. Even after several weeks, John still has not grown accustomed to seeing Silence perched on top of the fireplace, its white, pure head raised to the ceiling, drinking in the odd cleanliness.<p>

For the first time in years, the flat was clean. The floor was visible, free of debris and paperwork. _His_ belongings sat in boxes; stacked sky high like looming skyscrapers in the corner of the room, concealing the spray painted smiling face that, even now – especially now - seemed ironic.

The Ghost, strides around the room, his long pale fingers drag along the walls, leaving imprints, which exist only for a moment before evaporating into the distilled air.

"I see you've packed away all of my belongings, John," he says briskly, turning to face the boxes, "But I've been gone for weeks, so why have you kept them? In case you need them? Possibly. Sentiment? More likely. But you've made no effort to organize them – they've been thrown in the boxes shabbily, in no real order - suggesting that you were angry or hurt at the time you packed them away. However, you've stacked them up so each box will be easy to access – you've been thinking of organizing them, putting them away in order, but you can't bring yourself to do it, didn't want to bring up old memories, but you don't want to throw those memories away, do you?"

John clenches his hand into a fist darkly, and Silence raises its eyebrows, expecting to be thrown away out the window, but it is surprised. John sighs heavily, letting his eyeballs roll back into this head. Sorrow purrs forlornly at his feet, weaving in and out between his legs before crawling over to _his_ chair, resting its tiny body on the soft leather. John walks over to meet it, sitting himself in his own armchair, gazing over. The Ghost flies across the room, the boxes forgotten, and sits down beside Sorrow. Together, they stare at John for hours and hours, until the windows are swallowed by darkness and John stands up, walking out of the flat.

The night is warm, a spring breeze combing through John's hair and wrapping its arm around his waist. The ground is still damp from the rain, but that doesn't stop John. Silence scurries behind him, keeping a considerable distance as the cars and the hum of chattering people frighten it.

John doesn't need to think anymore, walking to the cemetery has become muscle memory. One foot in front of the other, one step closer, and he's there – the sparkling marble stands before him, the branches of the tree hovers over him, creating a canopy above his head.

He kneels in front of the grave, Sorrow and Silence on either side of him, staring at the name as well, eyes wide.

"I went to see her today," John mutters, and Sorrow meows loudly at his side, "You told me she was useless. You're right, though. Doubt she knows what she's doing. They rarely do, just in it for the money."

_His_ name doesn't reply, but it listens intently, never moving an inch.

"I don't know if I'm going to go back to the surgery," John continues, the corners of his mouth forming a sad smile. A small, crystalline tear drips at the corner of Sorrow's eye, "Not sure what it'll be like going back to the normal routine … there wasn't really a routine with … with you, was there?"

John places his hand on the cold marble not for the first time, and pats it in what might be a friendly gesture, and leans his shoulder against the name, feeling the imprint of the S and H through his clothes.

"One more thing," he says as he closes his eyes, Sorrow and Silence crawling onto his lap, "Don't be dead."

Sleep envelopes his eyes, Silence and Sorrow resting on his knees and Sherlock Holmes holding him upright as always.


	3. Act One II

**II**

"That's the third time this month he's done that," Mycroft Holmes murmurs, snapping the cell phone shut and turning away from the window to face the curly haired man that sits in an armchair, violin poised on his shoulder, bow hovered just above the strings, "You have to tell him."

Sherlock Holmes ignores his brother, instead bringing the bow down to meet the strings, trilling out a fast, yet sorrowful tune. Mycroft sighs, running his wiry fingers through his already thinning hair. The tune continues, flipping and twirling through the air like a swallow, surging over the eldest Holmes' head and eventually out of the window.

Suddenly, Sherlock stands up, brushing down his shirt with his palms, the violin left discarded on the chair. His fingers drum again his sides, as he paces around and around the room, muttering violently under his breath.

"This is _torture_!" Sherlock yells suddenly, as he stops pacing, "I am so _bored_!"

Mycroft rolls his eyes, exasperated.

"Well, maybe you should head on back to 221B and get a _case_!" he hisses violently, glaring at his younger brother.

Sherlock shake his head, returning to pacing, but with added hand flourishes.

"No, no, can't do that," he mutters, "Can't have them realizing I'm alive."

Mycroft sighs heavily, bringing his fingertips together as he sits down behind the large desk in the centre of the room. There is barely a moment of silence before Sherlock is groaning, his fingers playing a frantic tune against his leg.

"Do I need to put you in the naughty corner?" Mycroft asks, not looking up from the stack of paperwork behind his desk. Sherlock stops pacing, turning back to the violin, trilling out a rather brutal number on its strings before throwing it down again in frustration.

"And just how long are you planning on staying here?" Mycroft flips a page in his stack of papers, barely glancing up at his brother.

The younger Holmes clicks at his phone, just finishing a text with the words, "JOHN, BORED, PLEASE FIND A CASE. –SH" before he remembers, flinging the mobile down on the seat to join the violin.

"As long as I have to." Sherlock mutters, continuing his pacing, back and forth, back and forth, like laps. Suddenly, he veto's to the desk, grabbing the paper from under his brother's nose, ignoring the noise of protest.

"What's this?" he asks, turning it over and around, causing Mycroft to roll his eyes.

"Are you sure you're not four years old?" he announces with a smug smile, snatching the paper away from his brothers grasp, "But if you must know, it is some very important legal documents concerning-"

"_Boring_," Sherlock drawls, flinging his thin body back onto the seat, nearly crushing the violin in the process. He picks at his phone for a moment before flinging it down once more, heaving a massive sigh of exasperation.

"Now _really_, brother," Mycroft looks up from the paperwork to glare at Sherlock, who, in turn, stares at the ceiling, shaking his head arrogantly.

"Can I just go outside?" Sherlock asks mockingly, earning him a begrudging look.

"Do you even hear yourself speak? Just a moment ago you were saying that you couldn't go back to John."

"Well that's _different_, isn't it?" Sherlock mocks, "I said I wanted to go_ out_. I didn't say I wanted to go back to 221B."

"But that's what you meant, isn't it?" Sherlock glowers at his brother before sitting down in the armchair, fingers pressed to his lips, staring out the window, his pupils small, swallowed by his liquid irises.

"I can't go back," Sherlock says wistfully, obviously avoiding the question, still gazing out the glass of the window onto the street outside, "Not yet. Not until the news dies down."

Mycroft looks sadly over at his brother – so fascinated by the world, yet unable to step outside for fear of being noticed. One day, after the great 'fraudulent' detective's suicide was old news, he would be able to go back to John Watson, back to 221B Baker Street. Mycroft was sure how his brother was going to go back to consulting, but the man was Sherlock Holmes – he would find a way.


End file.
